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  Once they were well away from the stairs, he switched on his device screen, throwing light over the dirty floor and columns.

  "Look at that," he said.

  Webber craned his neck. "The cockroach? Or the bigger, deader cockroach?"

  "Nope. My device is working again." MacAdams punched in his nameless contact. He had no idea if the man would answer—there was a good chance he'd been taken out by one of the alien bombs—but the guy picked up almost immediately.

  "Who is this?"

  "The guy you sent up an elevator to try to catch a god damn spaceship," MacAdams said.

  "We were aware of that possibility. That is why we had the foresight to send a second agent. It will please you to hear he succeeded."

  "Yeah, he told me all about it. He's standing next to me right now."

  The man had the cool demeanor of a long-time spook, but he couldn't hide the surprise from his voice. "He is? How?"

  "He fell. I did the neighborly thing and caught him."

  "That's…good. Very good. There is a reason we selected your people for this task."

  "Speaking of, how's it looking up top? We winning?"

  "Winning?" The man gave a short laugh. "No. But we are making them hurt."

  "Good. I like making people hurt. It's even more fun to hurt aliens." Something scuffled down the platform; MacAdams whirled, but it was just a rat. "What about our third agent?"

  "She delivered the package and exited her target. I don't know her current status."

  MacAdams nodded to himself. So Rada might still be alive. Given the situation, he supposed that was the best they could hope for.

  "In case you haven't noticed," he said, "the city's fucked. You got a way for us to get out of here?"

  "There is nothing we can currently do for you. If you wish to reach safety, it is recommended that you head for the mountains."

  "Yeah, I'd figured that much out on my own." MacAdams frowned. "Hey, back up. If we want to reach safety?"

  "That is a reasonable goal. But there is more that you can accomplish here in the capital."

  "Like what? Getting thrown across the atmosphere by a mushroom cloud?"

  "Go to the palace. Access the president's chambers, just as you were trained to do. Gather up any devices, private networks, or other forms of information storage."

  "What are you expecting to find?"

  "President Cannel was clearly in repeated contact with the Lurkers. If we can find his communications, they could be vital. He also had allies, as well as enemies, for his strategy to surrender. To mount an effective resistance, we must know who to trust and who to suspect."

  "Safe bet is to suspect everyone and let them prove you wrong. Let me talk it over with my compatriot."

  "Contact us if and when you have the files. Otherwise, there is no need for us to speak again."

  The link closed. MacAdams turned down the brightness on his device, casting them in deep shadows. "I've heard more gratitude from a guy whose teeth I just knocked out. What do you think?"

  Webber shrugged. "Yeah, that guy was totally a prick."

  "About our new job."

  "Oh, it's an incredible opportunity they've granted us. Just so I understand, they want us to cross the city, which is currently burning down, and might start getting bombed again any second, then enter the capital's palace, which might be the only place in town still under armed guard, and steal the personal files of the president we assassinated less than an hour ago?"

  "Yeah."

  "Why not just tell us to jump off the Elevator without a parachute?"

  "Is that a no?"

  Webber rolled back his eyes. "So our choices are a suicide mission or a run to the mountains. If we run, what are the chances we make it out of the city without also dying?"

  "Not great. Not zero."

  Webber slapped his palm against one of the columns, jaw dropping in disgust as he saw the black grime it left on his hand. He wiped it vigorously on his suit, which was still damp from their fall into the pond.

  "You know, I kind of thought 'taking out the evil dictator who's turning us over to the aliens and also helping to launch a massive sneak attack against them' would exempt me from any more hero duty." Webber grimaced. "But there's nobody else around to do this, is there? What the hell, let's go break into a palace."

  MacAdams gazed up at the ceiling. It was grimy with age, and little stalactites of corroded metal hung from the girders. "Once the Lurkers retake Earth orbit, they'll start bombing again. Might be safer to take the tunnels as far as we can. Doubt we'll see any trains running any time soon."

  "Oh great. So we'll just have to deal with swarms of emboldened rats."

  MacAdams took a long look at a map of the u-train system on his device. "GPS ain't working. We want to make very sure we keep heading in the right direction."

  Webber nodded glumly. Once MacAdams had the route fixed, he dropped down onto the track. A single metal rail ran down the middle of the passage. Candy wrappers floated in the oily water stagnating on the ground. Still had plenty of urine scent, but as he walked on past the platform and into the train tunnel, the smell softened to general mustiness.

  The lights were out and MacAdams had to keep his device pointed ahead to illuminate the way. They both carried their pistols in hand. Rats scurried from the advancing line of light, eyes shining redly. The echo of their footsteps and breathing made it sound like they were on the constant verge of running into another group and MacAdams made sure his finger was off the trigger so he couldn't pull it instinctively.

  "So," Webber said after five minutes of not being attacked by crazed hordes or shambling tunnel-people. "Do we have any sort of plan for getting into the president's palace? Or were you just going to tell them someone had called us in to see why their fridges had stopped working?"

  "I spent my whole flight to Earth simming ways to make entry. We'll climb up the outer wall and straight into Cannel's bathroom."

  "How do we do that? Is this one of those walls that's actually a staircase?"

  "Grapplers. I was using them to climb up the Elevator after I couldn't get any closer to Cannel's private roost. You got a baffler?"

  "No. I had to look like an average joe servant. If I hadn't been showing up on bio scans, security might have taken issue with letting a ghost enter the president's private chambers."

  "Then you'll have to climb up right next to me to stay in my baffler's field."

  "Think their security systems are still running?"

  "If anything's still got power, it'll be the palace."

  They came to another platform. MacAdams shined his device across it. A man was crouched there, wearing a shirt and underwear but no pants, blood running down his face from a scalp wound. His white eyes stood out from the red like a pair of beams. MacAdams trained his pistol on the man and kept walking. The man didn't move, eyes tracking them as they disappeared down the passage. His form slowly faded back into darkness.

  After a hundred yards, MacAdams switched off his device and hunkered down, facing back the other way. Drops of water plinked faintly. He had his left hand braced against the rail and something crawled over it; he shook his hand hard, biting his teeth together to stay silent.

  Once he was sure the man wasn't following them, and had convinced himself they didn't need to go back and shoot him just in case, he stood and continued forward. Now and then the walls widened into access tunnels. Some were stuffed with blankets and trash, but if anyone was there now, MacAdams didn't see them.

  A rumble ran through the tunnel. MacAdams' eyes widened—oncoming train?—but the sound was like distant thunder. And it wasn't the ground that was shaking. It was the ceiling.

  "Shit," Webber said.

  "That's the summary."

  "That was a bomb, wasn't it? Are we safe down here?"

  "Think we'd be safer in the streets?"

  "I think I hate every part of this."

  "I think it's time to start running."


  MacAdams did just that, holding his device out in front of him like a torch, snatching glances at the map on it to make sure they were still headed in the right direction. They had about three miles until they reached the second-closest station to the palace, which he figured would be safer than the closest. They were running through some gunk and light rubble and couldn't manage their full speed. Twenty minutes seemed optimistic. Probably closer to thirty.

  The ceiling shook again. Grit showered into the standing water with a rainy hiss. They didn't make it ten seconds before the next burst rattled the tunnel.

  Webber stole a glance at the ceiling. "Are those getting closer?"

  "Don't know."

  "Because it feels like they're getting closer."

  "If you don't quit yapping, I'll call in the airstrike myself."

  They went off two or three per minute. He had no idea how powerful they were or how far away, but the way the floor was shaking, they were either very big or very close. A tunnel forked to the right. MacAdams came to a stop, skidding in the muck, holding up his device to search the wall for its tunnel number. Confirming it was their turn, he diverted down it.

  Another bomb came down, the loudest yet; he was almost sure the ground moved under his foot, but maybe that was just the slickness of the mud. Just another mile. He was really starting to doubt the wisdom of going aboveground, but if they headed straight for the river, he doubted they'd get any bombs dropped on them. And the river ran right past the palace. Assuming it was still there, they wouldn't have to spend more than ten minutes inside, and then—

  He was thrown from his feet; he was battered with the sound of a breaking glacier; he was knocked in the chest by a wave of force and then on the shoulders and head by falling pebbles. He found himself lying in the inch-deep water next to the track. Webber was next to him, completely gray with dust, lashes clogged thickly as he blinked.

  MacAdams felt like he'd had several organs kicked out of his torso and if he moved the rest of them would fall out too, but the ceiling was groaning, dust and stone shards splashing into the water around them. He grabbed Webber by the shoulder of his suit and pulled him to his feet.

  Another boom rattled the tunnel—not a bomb, but a car-sized chunk of rock falling from the ceiling and pounding onto the rail behind them. Ahead, a hail of concrete poured from a yawning crack.

  MacAdams sprinted forward, meaning to get past it before it gave way. Webber yelled something and shoved MacAdams hard, sending him stumbling toward a maintenance alcove hollowed from the wall. A chunk of falling concrete scraped his ear and bounced off his shoulder. He flung himself into the alcove, rolling as he landed and scrambling toward the back wall.

  He rolled into a ball, back turned to the thunder behind them. Webber did the same. MacAdams pulled the mask of his suit over his head. Wouldn't do much to save him from falling rocks, but it could at least filter out some of the noise. The deafening roar diminished to angry static.

  "So," Webber said through his comm. "What've you been up to the last few months?"

  MacAdams snorted, then squeezed his eyes shut, then laughed harder. "We tried to put together a space defense plan. Figure you saw how that turned out."

  "Your asses got kicked so hard they're probably crossing out of the System as we speak. What about Toman? How much did we lose?"

  "A few dozen in the skirmish with UDL. Most made it out. But the squabble split us in two. Kansas took the Locker ships who knows where. Toman sent the rest to hide on Titan. We were going to start up a hidden civilization, but then DS came to us with this crazy idea. What about you?"

  "Oh, you know, trying to convince my legs that working again will make them more proud than unemployment."

  The crash of rock dwindled. Just as MacAdams was about to turn around for a look, it picked right back up where it started. "You're getting around like nothing ever happened. How?"

  "Robotic braces. The best Valiant Enterprises and Dark Solutions can come up with. They're not good for recovery, though. Your system starts to rely on them rather than rebuilding itself."

  So Webber wasn't taking the easy way out anymore. MacAdams didn't think that would have been true back in the days of the Fourth Down. Wasn't much to be said for war and strife, but if there were any silver linings at all, it was in the way it took soft clay and fired it into something hard.

  "So what, Dark Solutions came at you out of the blue?" MacAdams said.

  "Some weirdo in a snappy suit showed up and asked me if I wanted to save the world. I figured it was better to get shot down by Cannel's security than getting nuked by aliens in my hospital bed."

  "That's always been my guiding philosophy."

  They fell into silence. The clamor slowed again. A few stray pebbles pinged MacAdams' back, but nothing big enough to dent him. He twisted around, shining his device into the whirling clouds of dust, which would have coated his mouth with paste if he didn't have the hood of his suit up.

  Concrete talus sprawled across the entrance to the alcove. It was higher beyond, burying the train rail, but mostly lay no more than knee-high.

  Webber pushed himself up on his elbow. "Is it safe yet?"

  "It's about as safe as slapping a bear. But if we stay here any longer we'll end up pressed like grapes."

  He got up and headed toward the main tunnel, left hip and shoulder leading the way, more of a fighting shuffle than a normal walk. Chips of stone were still dropping onto the carpet of debris. He reached the rail tunnel and took a peek around the corner.

  The left side of the passage was nothing but a plug of jumbled rock. The right side was still half open. For now. MacAdams scrambled forward, concrete grinding and turning under his boots. Webber was having a little trouble hiking his knees high enough to step over the bigger chunks. MacAdams slowed, sticking to his side.

  Another bomb went off. Distant, but the vibration knocked loose another shower of grit. Twenty feet ahead, a constant stream of pebbles began to fall from a crack in the ceiling. MacAdams surged forward on his hands and knees, the light of his wrist device veering crazily over the rubble. They were barely past it when the stream of pebbles became a river and the whole roof fell in behind them.

  MacAdams didn't wait for the dust to clear to keep going forward. For a long time, he had no thoughts at all, just keep moving the feet, keep going, you stop and you're dead. Bare patches showed through the rubble ahead, and then there was no more rubble, just the beautiful straight metal of the rail and the harmless muck and puddles alongside it.

  They didn't stop until they came to the platform one stop away from the palace. MacAdams climbed up and caught his breath. Liberation was practically right on the equator and the muggy night had his suit fighting to wick away the sweat. Gun back in hand, he moved to the staircase. Seeing nothing, he headed up.

  On the surface, three bodies had been tossed down in a spew of rubble, red blood drying on the gray grit coating their skin. Half the block was gone, pounded into a quarry of concrete. MacAdams hadn't heard a bomb in five minutes. But the night felt even quieter than that. He cocked his head: there were no more sirens anymore.

  He headed for the river at a fast jog. Webber ran beside him. They came to the waterfront, the river as wide and black as a parking lot, immediately cooler than the war-heat of the baking city. A quarter of a mile ahead, the rectangle of the palace stood intact, but not a single one of its windows was lit.

  As they walked through the grass, which was well-tended but wouldn't be for long, MacAdams kept one eye on the sky. He hadn't seen any flashes by the time they stood beneath the sheer white walls of the palace.

  He'd done enough sims that he didn't need to check which window was the bathroom of Cannel's private quarters: eleventh floor, one of the blocky towers rising from the main building. MacAdams took a long stare at the dark window. Part of him wished he had a drone to send up and take a look, but if the palace's security systems were still up and running, they'd spot it at once.

  No s
ense in standing around and waiting for the Lurkers to get back from their coffee break and start bombing again. He secured the grapplers to his forearms, used a length of cord to tie his belt to Webber's, then thrust out his right hand.

  A line of thin rope shot up the wall. Its globby end hit the smooth stone and stuck fast. MacAdams reeled himself up, carrying Webber along with him. As he closed on the secured end of the rope, he extended his left arm and fired another rope higher up the wall.

  Floor by floor, they rose. The lawn and the river shrank beneath them. They reached the top of the main building and climbed over the edge. Rooftop looked empty. MacAdams fired his grappler up the face of Cannel's tower.

  Another minute and they were dangling next to the bathroom window. It was closed, but its bolt was magnetic and currently not functional due to the lack of electricity, which they had never imagined they'd lose, not with an internal power source down in the guts of the building. But they'd probably never imagined they'd be saturation bombed by aliens, either.

  MacAdams slid the window open and listened. Hearing nothing but a slight ringing in his ears, he unclipped Webber and helped boost him inside, then followed him through the window.

  Too dark to see more than shapes, but he knew from the simulations that the floors and walls were done in coral tile and that the bathroom was big enough to have its own servant quarters. He let his eyes adjust to the lesser light, then drew his pistol and advanced to the door.

  Everything was still ear-ringingly silent. The door was an automatic and he gritted his teeth as he slid it open, expecting it to squeak, but it had been maintained well and didn't make a sound.

  MacAdams crept down the hall toward Cannel's office. The hallway had no windows and was almost immediately pitch black. He turned his device on to its dimmest setting.

  The door to his right was open. Beyond it, two men in goggles swung their faces toward him. In unison, they reached for the guns on their hips.